Black, White and Read All Over
by TheNewIdea
Summary: It made little difference if Pete changed now or at all, for he would still be seen in unfavorable black and white, never having the chance to even become a shade of grey. Rated T for angst, issues dealing with addiction, suicide, poverty, self-worth, humanity and morality. Contains some religious elements pertaining to Christianity but remains as universal as possible.


Pete woke up surrounded by stacks of newspapers, discarded clothes and used tissues. The bedroom was relatively small in comparison to Pete's size and the rest of the house, which was nothing more than a glorified shack resting on the old wharf on the shore of Lake Victorious. Sitting up Pete groaned as he scratched his stomach lazily, wanting nothing more than to crawl back into bed and sleep the days he had left away. Looking around only gave Pete more justification to do nothing, it made little difference if he cleaned or not for eventually he would be drunk enough to mess it all up again.

Standing up from his bed and stretched his limbs out to their full extent Pete habitually looked himself over in the cracked mirror that sat on the broken dresser directly across from the bed and saw what he believed himself to be. Having developed a poor self image Pete saw a fat, disgusting and unappealing mass. A thing that was so horrible there was not a proper name for it in any language. He felt nothing but disdain as he haphazardly patted his belly, hating himself as he saw it ripple in response.

_"Day 1 of new life"_ Pete said to himself, making notes in his head, _"Take your pills, pay your bills and start that workout routine. Maybe, if you're good, you can have one indulgence."_

Turning to his left towards the small window that faced the shore and a docked Steamboat Willie, Pete shook his head sadly, remembering when things were simpler, when he lived in an actual house inside of a rundown shack, when he was respected by all and feared by none, when he used to be someone important. Now, Pete was little more than nothing, barely a blimp on the radar of most people.

As Pete let out a loud yawn and casually cracked his knuckles he laughed to himself as he realized that he was completely naked. Drawing the blinds to hide himself from the world Pete began to search for a pair of underwear amid the chaos that was his room, banging his knees against the small night table, which was between the bed and the window, at the same time. Getting on the bed Pete crawled his way to the other side, pushing over a large stack of newspapers that blocked the closet entrance only to face a pile of laundry that was both clean and dirty mixed together. A small gathering of flies was hovering over the pile as if they were meeting for an early breakfast. Pete swatted the flies away, reached his hand in and dug until he hit the floor, pulling out what he assumed to be the last pair of clean underwear that he had. Without even so much as inspecting it Pete put it on, only to discover too late that the underwear was not clean, covered in urine stains and skid marks from a bad night of drinking.

At this point however, Pete had little reason to care about his image and so simply put on his overalls, which were tattered and about to rip at the seams, and made his way into the kitchen.

The kitchen was even worse than the bedroom. To Pete's left was a basic counter set complete with floor and ceiling cabinets. The counter-top was made of off-white tile, the kind used in bathroom flooring, one of Pete's many "home improvement jobs" to give the shack at least a feeling of home. The sink, which was on the far wall opposite Pete, was piled high with dishes to the point where using it was impossible. The oven and stove unit to the right of the sink was broken; it had been so for the past six weeks, Pete having relied on fishing and other means to survive without it. The floor, also made of bathroom tile, was a blue and green diamond pattern that ran from Pete's bedroom to the end of the shack. A small circular table with four yellow chairs surrounding it was directly in the middle of the space. Pete did not know why he had four chairs, for no one ever came to visit him and if they did it was usually to scold and berate him for situations that were beyond his control, his current standard of living being a favorite topic of discussion.

Sitting in one of the chairs not bothering to make himself breakfast despite the fact that he was extremely hungry Pete sat by himself in reflective silence.

Pete often thought about his situation. He dreamed that one day when he was out on Steamboat or perhaps in town that he would come back to nothing. The shack would be gone, swept away by a storm or destroyed in a freak accident. But sadly, Pete's dreams were never fulfilled for every day he returned to his shack in misery and despair.

What Pete called pride, others called stubbornness. Getting fired from a longstanding career at Disney was only the beginning of his troubles, within a year Pete had lost all of his money that he had made due to a gambling addiction. In two years time, he was forced to sell his house for half its value, what money he received from the sale was quickly lost, his addiction unsolved and including alcohol and various ladies of the night. Now, three years after Disney, Pete found himself attending AA meetings and therapy, originally part of a court order and now voluntarily doing so, for the first time taking responsibility for his actions.

Rising from the table, completely forgetting about breakfast, Pete turned towards the door grabbing the only thing of value that he had, an acoustic guitar that he gotten at a yard sale for twenty dollars. It was the best money he ever spent on anything, the only thing in his life that had meaning that was a constant positive.

"Does the Struggle ever end?" Pete said to no one in particular.

Pete looked around hoping for an answer, then he remembered he was alone and so answered his own question as if someone were standing with him.

"We weren't meant to carry the weight of the world Pete" he continued, changing his voice slightly doing his best intimation of Crocodile, his therapist.

"Yet I'm crushed by it" Pete answered normally, "It's like the universe is against me. I don't know what's real anymore Croc, to be honest I'm scared to death. Maybe it would just be easier if just I go away."

Pete mirrored Crocodile's response, for they had this exact conversation before, saying nothing and simultaneously breaking his own heart.

Standing outside of his shack, Pete looked out at the fog of the lake, saying and doing nothing, simply allowing himself to exist in this single moment of time. When he was satisfied he turned left and walked down the dock to the rest of the pier, through the fog he could see a small time food establishment that faced the lake. This food vendor, which specialized in seafood, was the business of Oswald the Lucky Rabbit, one of the only people who was actually concerned with Pete and his well-being, the other being Oswald's brother Mickey, Pete's former crew member and Disney cohort.

Oswald's food vending station was the type of thing that you would see in amusement parks, a rectangular building with a half of the wall facing the lake completely gone in favor of a bar and stools. Only open during the late spring, summer and early fall months, the business was more of a side job to Oswald that anything, most of his time taken up with Disney, who had recently hired him back as part of the revitalization process of the company in an effort to bring focus back to its origins.

"Mornin' Pete" Oswald said warmly as he prepared Pete's usual order of hash browns, grilled salmon and eggs with a glass of orange juice, "How we doing today?"

Pete shrugged indifferently as he took a stool; there was nothing that Oswald didn't know about Pete's life for he was a creature of bad habits that got longer with every passing day. It made little difference if Pete changed now or at all, for he would still be seen in unfavorable black and white, never having the chance to even become a shade of grey. But Pete did not care about others' opinion of him, at least, not enough to where it affected him psychologically. The only things that Pete cared about were himself, Steamboat and his guitar, everything else, even his clothes, were secondary.

Oswald set Pete's food in front of him causing Pete to jump out of his seat a little bit, for silence had filled the air in the time that Oswald asked his question to the delivery of the plate, Pete completely ignoring Oswald in favor of breathing for the sake of breathing.

"You know I never thought it'd come to this" Oswald exclaimed as he began cleaning off the counter-top and Pete began eating, "I always thought out of all of us you'd be the one who would have everything that one could ever want."

Pete nodded in partial agreement, "I did Os" he answered sadly as he forked in a mouthful of salmon, "I had everything a man could ask for. A house, a job, friends, a woman who loved me...and I threw it all away. I deserve this; I deserved everything that ever happened to me. It's better if I just fade away out of everyone's lives, they'll be better for it."

Oswald shook his head in disagreement, "You've just hit a rough patch Pete, that's all. I don't like seeing you this way, it's not right, even of someone with your history."

Pete huffed; he wasn't looking for sympathy, seeing Oswald's statement as pity, which he would not accept under any circumstances.

"I've been in the same place for three years Oswald" Pete retorted, "That's more than a rough patch. That's life kicking me in the teeth and dealing me the crap hand. It's the world forgetting about me, throwin' me around like I'm some cheap rag doll not worth anyone's time or consideration."

Oswald could only sigh, for nothing else was appropriate for the situation, he followed this with a pitiful laugh, the kind that one would give when someone is so in the wrong that logic and reasoning have obviously abandoned them, self loathing and angst replacing those ways of thinking and becoming the forefront of all further thoughts until they subsided.

"You're wrong Pete" Oswald declared, "You're worth someone's time. You're worth my time and my consideration. Now do me a favor and stop beating yourself up over things you can't control, there's no point in that. You're only killing yourself faster!"

Pete laughed hardheartedly at this, "Good!" he exclaimed, "The sooner I'm dead the sooner everything can get back to normal."

Oswald wanted to say that because Pete was a product of Disney and by default a toon, death was impossible. Oswald said nothing however, letting Pete believe that death was an option in an effort to make him happy. Even if he wasn't a toon Oswald would still say nothing, allowing Pete to effectively end his life in whatever way he chose, not to say that the rabbit saw suicide as acceptable but rather to allow Pete to die as he lived, on his own terms.

"I'm not going to stop you" Oswald continued, "You want to kill yourself? Fine, go ahead. Just think about the world you're leaving behind, the things that you've done, the people you've touched before you do. Look at yourself one last time and, if you still feel the need, if you find yourself alone because you're too blind to see what's right in front you, then I give you permission to do what you will. Maybe God will pity you enough to let you in."

Pete nodded, absorbing Oswald's words and letting them sink in his brain. Finishing his meal, Pete gave a gentle wave and a smile.

"I'm not going anywhere yet" Pete said, mostly for the sake of himself, "I still got a hand to play, might as well play it till I've got nothing left."

Oswald nodded and watched Pete made his way towards town, when he was sure that Pete was out of earshot he picked up the phone and dialed Mickey's number, just as the sun's ray let themselves down over the lake, stretching themselves out to their full extent as they greeted the day, promising the lake an abundance of activity and Oswald plenty of business.


End file.
